Working Sex

by Annie Oakley

  “You make me sick,” I tell him.

  “I’m sorry mommy,” he says, groaning as he cums.

  And then I didn’t hear from him for a while. I’d sign on every night expecting his call, but nothing. Just a bunch of giantess fetishists and CBT enthusiasts, pedophiles and crossdressers. Weeks went by. I was glad that Jimmy wasn’t calling. I didn’t have the energy to act like I cared what he was doing or make him feel loved.

  i have to pause and ask you Jimmy. how are you, now? do you feel loved? is it forgotten? are you fixated? haunted? healed? you know that this is the part of the story that ties the knot. a part of me is true to you always.

  i ’m in the middle of making dinner the next time Jimmy calls. “What are you doing mommy?” he asks, hearing the chop chop of the knife. I start talking about how I’m cutting vegetables so I can boil him in a pot of soup like Bugs Bunny. He doesn’t totally go for it but he’s not put off. “I missed you mommy.”

  “I missed you too,” I say, deadpan. Then, to be nice, “Where have you been?”

  “Something bad happened, and I had to take a break.”

  I stop my chopping. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, seriously, leaving open space in case he wants to say more.

  “You remember that couple I was playing with?” I say yes. “Well I went over one day, and they tied me up, and a bunch of their friends came over, and it wasn’t play. . . . It was like they were mad at me.”

  They kept him tied up for ten hours. He was repeatedly raped and beaten by the couple and five of their friends. When they finally let him leave he was bruised and bleeding and almost unconscious. He hadn’t told his roommate or mistress about the couple, so nobody knew where he was. Oh Jimmy. Poor baby. I hope he can hear the genuine compassion in my voice when I tell him how horrible that sounds.

  I have no training in dealing with this. One time a nineteen-year-old with a developmental disability called me and basically reported a trauma that was happening to him in his home. He hung up the second I said it was wrong for his parents to do that to him. I agonized over that choice afterwards—was it just his fantasy? Was I shaming him?—it seemed so real.

  In this case I can tell this is not Jimmy’s fantasy. He’s confiding in me, as someone he trusts. I wonder what it will be like to go back to phone sex with him again after this conversation. He says his mistresses have been really nice to him while he recovered, and he just went to his first sex party again a couple nights ago.

  “There was a head mistress, the lady who owned the house, and I got locked in a cage with her eighteen-year-old daughter,” he says, with that telltale gurgle. I brace myself. I don’t like this eighteen-year-old-daughter-in-a-cage situation. La la la. “We could barely move, the cage was so small, we could just wiggle around, and they made me fuck her,” slap slap slap.

  “Oh, that sounds hot,” I’m not totally lying. Despite or maybe because of the creep-out factor, it is a hot story.

  “It was so hot,” he growls. “I fucked the shit out of her.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I fucked her and fucked her, I fucked her raw, I made her scream . . . ”

  I go along with his story. His voice sounds different, there’s another layer to it that wasn’t there before. Then it softens. He wants to be humiliated. I can’t do it with the fervor I used to. I feel sad and tender towards him. I talk about sucking his cock, one of my favorite phone-sex activities, something we never really do together, and he cums and says he’ll call me again soon. I think that was the last time we talked.

  i don’t really even expect you to remember me. it’s been eight months and you’re a busy guy. you’ve probably had at least a couple new better mommies who only know the now-jimmy, not the then-jimmy. it’s okay. i hope you never read this. but somehow, magically, i hope you know it. you have a witness.

  love,

  mommy katie

  golden

  Ariel Smith

  I am standing

  strong, fresh, and golden

  in the day glow softness

  of the kiddie stroll

  tight skin

  bathed in the sickly, soothing yellow of streetlights

  we’re all here

  scrubbed shiny

  made up like perfect, pretty dollies

  I be chapped lips and fishnets

  pinkie toes swollen and sore from digging into the edges

  of these high heeled boots

  $49.95 at the store down on Hastings

  god I hate these fucking shoes

  don’t like feeling all wobbly and unsure when I walk

  like some little girlie playing dress up

  wanna feel big and swollen inside myself

  sexy, dangerous monster

  huge powerful strides

  glowing self confident

  then

  familiar sound

  car tires cut slick through pools of oily water

  slowly, slowing

  take your pick

  there’s so many lined up

  pink, powdery candies

  waiting to be drawn into the warm danger of your

  moving vehicle

  leaving you with traces of our sugary sweetness

  I lean over

  big, shiny smile wasted on you

  my long hair brushing against cold metal of your

  window frame

  “how old are you baby?”

  “thirteen, fourteen?”

  “i’m how ever old you want me to be”

  “$60 for the best head of your life”

  these words fall from my dry, painted lips and then

  laid before you

  my words small poems laid before you

  on cold, cracked cement

  eye contact

  drawn in by my prototypical innocence

  car door swings open and tonight fear rushes

  tonight fear rushes all hot and demanding like

  a fever

  biting at my ankles like a bad dream

  but I step over it

  on it

  crush it, crush it

  put all the weight in my twelve-year-old body

  on that fear and crush it

  slide in beside you your warm hand on my thigh

  talking all light and empty like Styrofoam

  crumbling

  we pull way and that fear is left dishevelled

  beside my six

  with just traces

  of pink, sugar sweet, powder.

  advice

  Kirk Read

  Okay, I’m just going to be blunt about some basic rules. You should try to avoid doing drugs with clients. On the surface, it seems like a good idea on several levels. Free drugs with nice enough people and the promise of a multiple-hour session because that’s how it goes when drugs are involved. How do you resist a $400 payday after three hours with someone who’s just given you a free tab of ecstasy, someone who really loves you in that moment and wants to look at you and maybe even cry? But this is the thing, you’ll end up fucking them without a condom because if you have any sense you also popped a Viagra, knowing that they wanted to get fucked and these days, chemistry being what it is, why leave things to chance? I don’t care what people say, when it’s X and speed, condoms are simply impossible. People don’t like to admit that because it’s part of the puritan stuff they’re trying to escape from. That’s why safe-sex billboards don’t work for tweakers and fags. They become part of the din of the world that they’re trying to escape. More parental voices in the choir. Or, for those of us who are way more rigid and judgmental than both our parents put together, those billboards give us more material, brand new pieces of verbal self-harassment.

  I once met this guy in Palm Springs on a very emotionally messy work trip where I saw eight people in six days or something like that. He had this mansion in a gated community and basically he wanted to put toys up my butt while he smoked cigarettes. Which was fine. Then a few years later I saw
him again up here in San Francisco and he said he’d switched and was bottoming a lot. He had been seeing an escort that he’d really fallen in love with who’d fucked him for the first time in years, and I was thinking, yeah, you got fucked bareback, that’s what that means. This guy got fucked bareback and released himself from a lot of years of shame about how irresponsible he was for having the audacity to enact his jerk-off fantasies, intact, without bleeping, which are what condoms are, a kind of bleep.

  He, and I should just give him a name, but I’m a hooker and won’t use the real name because a) I’m a total professional, and b) I don’t remember it at the moment. I’d have to search my AOL account for it. I’m an electronic packrat. My grandparents had their house condemned in rural Virginia because they had too much old furniture in their backyard. Rats in pianos. For me, it’s more about an unruly hard drive. Anyway, I’m going to call this man Paul.

  I got to the hotel, the Hyatt I think, yeah, because I remember that there were two towers and that hotel is notorious for architectural confusion. You get a room number like 2641 and it doesn’t mean the 26th floor, it means the sixth floor of the second tower. Or is it the Hilton that’s so daunting?

  Paul wanted to do a tab of ecstasy and I was in one of my liberated moods, justifying it, thinking I really shouldn’t be such a prude, I really need to let go of all my good-boy tendencies and airs. It’s so out of line with my performance of myself, it’s so disjointed, this constant pressure to have my teachers write glowing things on the back of my report card. Those things were way more important to my father than my actual grades. Dad wanted to see that the teacher had taken the time to write in blue cursive, “Your son is such a joy to have in class! So willing to help! So kind to his classmates!” Clients have a website where they write those kinds of comments about escorts but I don’t even want to get into that right now because I feel like I’m getting ahead of myself.

  We take the ecstasy and I secretly take a Viagra in the bathroom because I know that my dick turns into mush on ecstasy. Like a pile of steamed mushrooms on a plate in a Chinese restaurant, useless to a man who’s flown all the way up here to get fucked and feel loved because he’s getting his prostate battered. His lover doesn’t do that anymore. I think one of his lovers died at some point. Isn’t that a safe assumption? There’s all this other stuff going on with these people. You walk down the street and people are just graveyards, really. I used to smile at everyone and think that being cheerful could make the world a better place and now I see all sorts of spirits swirling around their bodies. Little blue fish swimming laps around their heads, knives sticking out of their cheeks, skin rashes and burns like planes have landed on their bellies. I guess I always sensed this stuff but now I see it. You have to be careful with other people.

  This man told me he loved me half an hour into me fucking him. He couldn’t believe that I was staying hard. He said that the escort he’d fallen madly in love with couldn’t stay hard and so they’d just cuddle and cry and talk about Italy. That’s a little much for me at this point with someone I’m only going to see maybe once a year. In the old days I would have been right there with him, leaving bits of my kidneys and liver everywhere—not indiscriminate, but open (really probably too open sometimes).

  Guys on ecstasy have a hard time shooting their loads, so you don’t have a clear endpoint, the way you do with guys who are just tripping on shame and release. You shoot your load and they start dabbing at you with a white hotel washcloth like you’re a wet countertop and if that doesn’t make you want to go home then you’ve got low standards.

  I used a condom with him, with Paul. Is that what I called him? Is that what you think his name is? Paul. I knew I was going to fuck him and the risk is so much lower when you’re a top, and it feels so much better and if I’m on ecstasy it’s going to be a challenge to stay hard anyway and I do feel this warm sense of love for him right now. Back then, all this was going through my head. It’s a kind of calculus, figuring out what to do. He was probably getting barebacked by that escort and other guys, too, so even if I wasn’t particularly at risk for HIV, there could be other critters up there, things a pill or a shot can’t banish, unsightly warts and herpes and things that live on and on beyond the moment. And you add up all the itching, you consider the discomfort, later, of being in situations where people you’re with are guessing that you have a wart on the head of your dick but not saying anything. You add up all those moments for the rest of your life and you put it all on the digital scale you use to weigh quarter ounces of pot and you write it all down, then ask yourself is it worth it for a better sensation on your dick? ‘Cause condoms are really about tops feeling better. The difference in sensation is more of an issue for the top.

  And if you’re not attached to having someone shoot cum in your ass, you’re better off. I mean, there’s the whole male pregnancy thing, lots of guys want to please everyone, lots of guys just don’t want to jostle the Grand Mystery with a single word. Those guys shouldn’t do drugs with their clients. That’s the bottom line from Uncle Kirk. If having someone you just met shoot cum up your ass makes you feel like a better person, if it gives you this glow of being pregnant and taking on the legacy of an entire generation of men, if that cum is more than an ending, if that cum is more than a relief and a grade on the report card, if you feel like you need that handwritten note from the teacher, if you want your dad to rub your head and tell you how proud he is, these are all good reasons not to do drugs with a client.

  my first porn film

  Jennifer Blowdryer

  For a hot, dead-broke nineteen-year-old girl, it’s cheaper to go out than to stay at home. And that’s exactly what I did. Three dollars a day was just fine for bus fare, but I still needed food and textbooks. Bummer. I already had my own bizarre societypunk social life, a nightlife full of transvestite strippers, transsexuals, rockabilly hustlers, and visiting rock bands. The best thing about visiting rock bands to me was the food that the asskissing promoters would provide backstage. With leather thigh boots, a vinyl miniskirt, bleached hair, and a tight starved slim bod, I could get in backstage at just about any rock show. While some of the girls were trying to get in the pants of bands like the Clash, I was trying to sneak off with their untouched crackers and wheels of brie. Once I even managed to get backstage with a visiting Japanese band, the Plastics, who got sushi and rice balls delivered to them.

  I had already found out about a swingin’ singles club through a girlfriend. We could attend as escorts, drink and snack for free, and even get $30 every time we left with a “member”! The members were all slightly low-rent businessmen, so when I did fuck one it was hard to get much takeaway cash. Anyone will buy a willing young girl dinner, a vacation, a line, or a drink . . . as long as she stays with them. But walking-away money was different, and I badly needed to figure out how to get it. Fuck the escargots, slap me a twenty! I felt like screaming in frustration time and again, but the naive college-girl part of me just didn’t know how to hustle businessmen for hard cash.

  One night I went out on the town in one of the many hot outfits I’d borrowed, slapped together, or snuck out of the local thrift store: a yellow raw silk dress from the ‘60s, Italian vogue-style, tight across my butt, low cut so the swell of my small tits could burst out, but with enough support so that they stuck up and could be shoved together artificially, the spikiest pumps ever walked on by a human from the sex boutique in London, fishnets, and a black leather double-wrap disco belt with brass buckles to bind me into the outfit even tighter.

  When a blonde pretty boy at the after-hours club I was trying to talk my way into said I should be in movies, I wasn’t in any position to snub him. I gave the guy my number and hoped he’d call. He had an unusual look for my usual sleazy surroundings: blonde, tanned, dressed like a tennis champ, toting a gym bag, and named Jesse. I was impressed. I’d never been popular in high school, so I’d never fucked a real wholesome-looking man before.

  When Jesse ca
lled he sounded a little mentally disturbed. He seemed to be having problems with some girl who was a bitch one minute and his girlfriend the next, and a rental car he couldn’t afford. He told me he made porn movies. None of this clashed with his tennis pro image in my mind. Since I’d never met a tennis pro or a porn star, it was all unknown territory. He tried to set up a date, but I didn’t care. I figured he would just come over to my apartment and fuck me. Sometimes three different men a day might come over and screw me, just by coincidence. They were always guys I liked. I’d usually get dinner, some casually dropped money, an egg roll, whatever.

  When Jesse came over, I was dressed in the most slutty outfit I owned: garter belt sticking out of a micro-mini, spike heels, more make-up than any nineteen-year-old should ever need, and a see-through white men’s tank top. We got down to business right away. He had a big dick. He ripped off my panties and started matter-of-factly pounding, no adolescent fumbling from him. He kept turning me around like he was almost bored, ramming me from the back doggie-style, hands gripping my tits, slapping my ass, me spread eagle on my bed while he chewed nonchalantly on my pussy, on top of him, on my back again. I was raw and sore but amazed at the same time.

  While he fucked, he talked.

  “You’re nice and tight now, nineteen is a good age. Women lose it when they hit twenty-one, they have to work really hard to stay in shape. They go here, in the thighs, your thighs are nice and tight.”

  It was more like I was a used car he was examining rather than a thrilled summary of my virtues. He ragged on about some other aspects of his job.